


At One Hundred and Two

by wardo_wedidit



Series: The 1975 [1]
Category: One Direction (Band), Radio 1 RPF
Genre: Adoption, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, BRIT Awards, Baking, Domestic, Family, Friends to Lovers, Future Fic, Kid Fic, Long-Distance Relationship, Love Confessions, M/M, Non-Chronological, Non-Linear Narrative, POV Alternating, Radio, Reunions, Sharing Clothes, Songfic, Touring
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-19
Updated: 2014-05-19
Packaged: 2018-01-25 17:18:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,964
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1656299
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wardo_wedidit/pseuds/wardo_wedidit
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><i>"And then he is breaking down into messy, wracked sobs over the phone to his sister, in a cab in the middle of North London, because he’s in love with Nick Grimshaw and he never did anything about it.  After so many chances, he never </i>did<i> anything about it."</i></p><p>Or, the road from Nick and Harry to Nick <i>and</i> Harry, and how it all has to do with one particular sweater.</p>
            </blockquote>





	At One Hundred and Two

**Author's Note:**

> Basically I'm going to be blaming all fic on [Rachel](http://goingxmissing.tumblr.com) until the end of time. 
> 
> We were talking about how heartbreaking ["102"](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Q0NXdwMP82Y) by The 1975 is and how well it worked for Nick and Harry, and then I ended up structuring a fic around it and [this sweater](http://37.media.tumblr.com/7be8fd2096eaf49e10aa55bae9bcd544/tumblr_myfip0Ngx11qelr06o4_250.png). But you would have too, though, if you were in my shoes! And I QUOTE: " _‘on this shirt i found your smell’. like this would apply to them always even when it /doesn’t/ smell like the other anymore, because some of their clothes have become so mixed-up that they can’t tell who owned what first. and it’s like they’re both ingrained into some of the t-shirts, the way they’re soft and worn with stretched collars. so well-loved._ "
> 
> If that doesn't make you wanna die a little bit I'm sort of worried about you, but this is my life and we're moving on. 
> 
> Anyway, be warned, here lies:  
> a) non-linear timelines  
> b) little vignettes that exist within the same storyline that are only tenuously connected  
> c) shifting POV  
> d) references to real people who are not really public figures  
> e) light angst and previous relationships  
> f) disgusting amounts of schmoop and children that usually crop up in future fic
> 
> Blah blah blah, all mistakes here are my own, unbeta'd because fuck it. First fic of summer!!!
> 
> (You may notice I have this marked as part of a series because I'm contemplating doing a bunch of little songfics for them with songs by The 1975 all in different universes, if that's something people are interested in.)
> 
> I TALK A LOT, ENJOY!!

//

“well we’re here / we’re at the common again / smoked six of the ten fags i only bought an hour ago…”

\\\

Nick leans against a wall outside and takes a long drag on his cigarette. He's trying to be better about smoking--really, he is, with the Sport Relief challenge looming ahead and all that--but tonight he just needs one. Or three. He's presenting an award on telly at the bloody _Brits,_ alright, he's allowed to be a bit nervous. 

The door to his right opens and closes, and Nick peeks his head around to see none other than Harry Styles. He feels his lips curl into a smile reflexively and only thinks of stopping them after it's already too late. "Hiya, popstar." 

Harry grins back at him, ambling over to stand next to Nick, leaning back against the brick. He is close enough that Nick can smell the tang of his cologne mixed with the slight bite of alcohol--heady and intoxicating. If Nick wasn't already absolutely smashed, this would be enough to get him there. 

"Thought you weren't doing that anymore," Harry says, frowning at the fag between Nick's two fingers. Nick purposefully does not contemplate Harry Styles worrying over the state of his health and instead tries to ignore the sound of his own pulse pounding in his ears, to middling success. 

"I'm not," Nick admits, eyeing the damn thing with an air of resignation. "But you know, big night and all that." He waves his hand around to indicate _Brits_ and Harry laughs, loud and unguarded. 

"Well c'mon then, give us a drag," Harry says, reaching for it. Nick holds it out without a word, and their fingers brush and linger in the transfer in a way that _has_ to be intentional. Either that or Nick is really, really drunk. Could it be both? 

Harry's lips close around the cigarette and he takes a pull, his slender fingers lowering it and flicking a spark onto the sidewalk. He holds it in for a second before breathing out slowly, a thin trail of smoke coming out and swirling in the inky night air in a way that makes Nick's chest inexplicably tight. Harry offers it back, and Nick takes it. He is too busy looking at Harry's mouth to notice if their fingers touch. 

He manages to look up just at the right moment, before Harry catches him staring like a creep. But Harry's eyes aren't fixed on Nick's face, but his clothes, brow furrowing. Nick feels slightly cheated and disappointed. 

"Is that my scarf?" Harry asks. 

Nick laughs, fondness crashing in waves inside his chest. "Yeah, earlier today I decided I didn't like any of mine so I went round to yours. Your mum styled me." Nick throws one end of the scarf dramatically over his shoulder and does a runway pout, which prompts a wide grin from Harry. "Like what you see, popstar?" 

"C'mere," Harry says with a wide, indulgent smile as he steps closer and before Nick knows what's happening, Harry's reaching out and pulling him in. His breath catches in his chest as Harry tugs on one end of the scarf, straightening and primping. He is close enough that Nick could count every single one of his lashes, if he wanted to. 

"There," Harry says, finally looking up. He is so, so close. His trademark smile is gone, replaced with something deeper that Nick can't quite parse. "You were all crooked," he explains, softer than a whisper. 

"Oh," Nick breathes. Harry has not let go of Nick's scarf, and Nick can feel the magnetic sort of tension that always manages to wedge it's way between them as Harry looks into his eyes. He stubbornly does not think about how Harry could kiss him, this close. Nick certainly wouldn’t stop him. 

It feels like they’re in a vacuum. It’s silent and Nick doesn’t dare breathe. Harry’s nose nudges in slightly and Nick thinks _this is it, after all this time_. His eyes catch the edges of Harry’s lips curving up into a smile slightly, and all of a sudden he’s thinking of that stupid thing Alexa said once that he hasn’t ever been able to completely get out of his head since--“like staring into the face of a lighthouse.” It makes him smile too, even as his stomach flutters with anticipation. 

Then the door creaks, and they jump apart. It bangs its way open and out comes a security guard, chest heaving. “Mr. Styles,” he stutters as he attempts to catch his breath. “You’ve just--your band, they’ve just won something--”

 _“Shit,”_ Harry breathes, already starting back inside. He pauses with his hand on the knob to look back at Nick. There’s a sadness in his expression that makes Nick feel silly, even though he’s disappointed too and he knows it. 

So he offers up a smile, hoping it’s not as wan as it feels because the sentiment behind it is truly genuine. “Congratulations, popstar,” he says--the word as much a reminder as a nickname, now. A reminder of why this is probably better anyway, a reminder of why they can’t do this. Could _never_ do this. “Go get ‘em.”

Harry nods and something steels in his face, just momentarily, before he’s back to his trademark smile and running inside. 

Nick thunks his head back against the brick and takes a long pull from his fag, willing his hands to quit shaking. 

\\\

“said well i / i like the look of your shoes / i like the way that your face looks when i’m / arguing with you…”

//

“That’s _Harry.”_

_“That is also… incorrect.”_

_“No it’s not!”_

_“Yes it is!”_

_“That’s_ you!” __

_“No it’s not!”_

_“Stop this clip, stop this clip. Play that clip again, that’s you. That’s your voice!”_

_“It’s not me!”_

_“Yes it is!”_

_“It’s not, I promise.”_

_“You’re playing mind-games with me, Styles.”_

_“No, no, no.”_

_“That’s your voice.”_

_“It’s not.”_

_“That sounds_ exactly _like your voice.”_

_“Well it’s not me!”_

_“Let’s have that clip one more time, let me hear that. Hit it. That’s your voice!”_

_“IT’S NOT ME!”_

_“Well who is it, then?”_

_“That is_ Liam!” __

 _“Ugh._ Bloody _Liam, doing a Harry Styles impression.”_

"You two are like actual school kids," Ian says disapprovingly after he wakes up from his nap. The show was so stressful for him he had to have a _lie-down._ Nick tries to remember to be sympathetic. 

He mostly fails. He's sort of too giddy to be bothered, if he's honest, still riding the adrenaline of being on-air. And also just… fuck it, today’s a good day.

Still, he rolls his eyes, even if it's mostly token protest. "Oh, shut up. We are not."

Matt snorts at the same time Fiona laughs. Nick feels betrayed by his team in his hour of need. _"Hey."_

"You were giving each other dead arms between links, Nicholas," Matt says archly, not looking up from the computer. "You don't get much more primary school than that."

"'Cept giggling, which they also did," Ian mumbles, still looking sulky. 

"You know what it's like?" Fiona asks, perking up. Nick does not like the look on her face. "It's like the first boy or girl you have a crush on at school, where you chase each other around the playground and tease each other and all that." Matt laughs in agreement while Ian just nods darkly, like he’s seen too much. 

They are exaggerating. They are being ridiculous. They are heartless, cruel, unhappy people that must leech of Nick’s happiness to stay alive. 

They’re all chatting excitedly with each other now (except Ian, who’s still being overdramatic but is announcing his opinions in dull, weary tones), completely unaware of his strop. Or, it’s entirely possible that after knowing him this long they _do_ realize and are just ignoring him. Good thing Nick loves them madly. 

“I never liked any of you lot,” he declares, going to sit in the corner. Let them have their giggle; he doesn’t care. 

His phones buzzes. It’s Harry, of course. _looooooove radio 1_

 _shut up_ , Nick texts back. _average face!!!!!_

_heyyyyyyy_

“Who you texting over there?” Fiona asks, grinning mischievously. 

“Oh, _we know,_ ” Ian says, groaning. 

“His face gives it away,” Matt agrees, nodding. 

Oh, he’ll show them _face._ Nick sticks his tongue out at them all, because he is an _adult_ , with a job, and ignores them.

_thank you honey lancaster xx_

//

“and so when / when we all grow old / i hope this song will remind you that i’m not / half as bad as what / you’ve been told…”

\\\

"Heard you're stepping out on me, Styles," Nick says playfully after he's kissed Harry's cheek in hello. He and Gray are set up in the kitchen, rolling out pizza dough, Gray on a stool with flour all down his front and Nick with some in his hair, which Harry had meant to tease him about. 

But now he sighs. Nick always finds these articles funny; Harry less so. "Who is it this time?"

"Daddy, I need the rolling pin!" Gray demands, pushing his hair out of his face. Great, now they both have flour in their hair. 

"Here, here," Nick says, grabbing the rolling pin and handing it over before turning back to Harry. "That woman you met with from the label last week. _Daily Mail._ It's on the kitchen table." He has to raise his voice for the last part, as Gray has started to use the rolling pin to straight up _bang_ on the already flat dough, which only enhances Harry's headache. 

Sure enough, they have pictures of the two of them leaving the cafe and getting into the car. _Harry Styles--Back to His Old Ways?_ The headline reads. He vaguely remembers something from his media training about how if there's a question mark at the end you can't sue them for libel. Disappointing. 

He's sure what sparked the discussion was that they couldn't identify her, being a new hire and all. _Mystery girl_ , like Gemma used to get. Still, Harry can't quite find it within himself to laugh. 

"What's stepping out?" Gray asks, peering up at Harry from the stool. Grimmy has left the room so Harry walks over and twines an arm around his Gray’s shoulders, pressing a kiss to his head. 

"Nothing, bug. Just something papers say." 

Gray looks puzzled for a minute before he's moving on, enthusiastically banging on the pizza dough again, and Grim returns in the next minute with Amelia on his hip. Harry reaches out to still Gray's hand, shaking his head softly even through Gray's pout. 

"You woke your sister up, love!" Nick says, sounding more amused than upset. Amelia is easygoing as always, blinking sleepily at Harry, who immediately makes a dramatic happy face. Unimpressed, she rubs her eyes with her tiny little baby hands. 

Gray, still brooding from the rolling pin rule, frowns and mushes the dough with his fingers. "She sleeps too much anyway, she sleeps more than Beckham." 

Beckham is their old golden retriever, steady and calm--good for kids and different enough from Puppy that he doesn't make Nick sad. Harry’s contested the name forever, even though Gray loves it. (Harry saw that interview where Nick got all flustered back in the day, and he knows it’s silly but _still_ ). Harry knows Pete Grimshaw takes their son’s affinity for football as a point of pride and considers the name a personal victory. Nick is still angling for Golden Balls, which is where Harry draws the line. 

Harry laughs, ruffling his son’s hair. It’s an alternate agenda, really, because the flour in Gray’s hair is bugging him. “That’s part of being a baby, love. You did too at her age.”

Gray wrinkles his nose. “Did not! Did I, Dad?” he asks, turning to Nick a little imperiously, hand on a hip, which makes Harry bite his lip to keep down his ridiculous smile. 

Nick is currently occupied trying to keep Amelia from getting her hands in the bowl of pizza sauce, but Harry catches his sly smile. Besides, it’s not like the kitchen could get any messier. “You’re right, Gray, of course.”

Gray beams at Harry, all _I told you so_ , and Harry sticks out his tongue at him just to see him dissolve into giggles, picking him up and swinging him onto his side. Gray goes happily, poking at Harry’s dimples. 

Harry walks them over to Nick and Amelia, bumping into them with his hip. Nick looks up from the pizza disaster in progress to smile softly at him. “I’m not stepping out,” Harry says, quiet and a little bit pouty, because he _knows_ Nick knows that but those articles just make him feel so shitty, and it needs to be said out loud. 

Nick laughs, leans in and presses a quick kiss to Harry’s lips. “Jokes on you, popstar, it’s actually me,” before returning to the pizzas, sliding his own and Gray’s lumpy one into the oven.

“Oh yeah?” Harry asks, playing right along, his grin giving him away. “With who?”

“Old Golden Balls, of course. He’s jetting me off to his own private island, away from children who don’t sleep through the night and messy kitchens and horrid minivans.” He closes the oven door and gently pries Amelia’s little fist from his hair, pretending to bite it. She gurgles happily. 

“He has like, five kids,” Harry points out as he adjusts Gray on his hip, who is bouncing along to the new Rita Ora track playing on the speakers, singing the wrong lyrics. 

“Yeah, but they’re all _models_ ,” Nick says excitedly. “Adding to the fortune, innit. Gray, are you gonna be a model and earn your daddies lots and lots of money? C’mon, give us your best Kate Moss pout.”

Gray does a little smolder that Harry thinks maybe Daisy taught him last time she was over for Sunday dinner, which makes Nick burst out laughing, and he leans in to smack a kiss on Gray’s cheek. “Perfect, bug. You’ll be on the cover of GQ before you know it.”

Gray wriggles to get down so Harry lets him, watches him rush over to the oven to turn on the light and watch the pizza dough bake. He remembers when Gray was too young for preschool and Nick still did the morning show, and the band was on a break so Harry stayed home with Gray in the mornings. Those are some of his fondest memories, making breakfast and watching telly and reading stories together, baking cookies. _Shh daddy, the cookies are sleeping,_ he'd always say after Harry put them in, and Harry would nod very seriously and pretend to lock his lips. God, in some ways Gray is just the same, but he's so much _bigger_ now and it hasn't been long at all. The thought makes his heart tug, so he motions for Amelia, making Nick roll his eyes. 

“Harry Styles, never happy without a baby on his hip,” he says as he hands her over, voice warm and fond, just like Harry likes it. 

Harry pouts, smoothing over Amelia’s hair. “She’s getting so _big_ , Grim. And look at Gray. We need another.”

Nick lays a dramatic hand on his forehead and pretends to sway on his feet. “Christ, Hazza, she’s only four months. You’re giving me heart palpitations in my old age. I won’t survive another baby _already_. I’m getting no sleep as it is.”

Harry twines an arm around Nick’s waist, and dusts the flour out of his hair. “I just want to make that minivan purchase worth it. We have to fill it,” he teases, and Nick laughs. 

He presses a kiss to Harry’s temple and snuggles him in closer, just like Harry likes. “Let’s get this baby through year one first, yeah?” He rests his head on Harry’s, making funny faces for Amelia. 

“Yeah,” Harry sighs happily.

It’s fine, he’s mostly kidding anyway. 

Mostly.

//

“and when i knock / at one hundred and two / and i see your pajamas / i can’t stop / smiling at you…”

\\\

“Collette, I’ve told you a _million_ times… you have a key for a reason, why don’t you ever--”

The door swings open and there is Nick, standing wide-eyed and open-mouthed at the sight of Harry on his doorstep. Harry tries not to let this make him nervous. It doesn’t quite work. 

“Hiiii,” he trills, beaming at Nick and crossing his fingers behind his back just in case. It’s juvenile and he knows it, but hey. Sometimes you _need_ a little extra luck. “Is Collette coming over?”

Nick blinks at him for a moment as if he’d completely forgotten his train of thought and then it dawns on him, lips twitching up at the edges like he’s fighting off a smile. “No, she’s just the only one who ever…” Nick laughs in the middle of his sentence (which never fails to make Harry go warm all over), scrubbing a hand over his face, “rings the bell.”

“Oh,” Harry says, swaying back and forth a little bit on his feet, looking Nick up and down. His brows knit together. “You’re wearing pajamas.”

“ _You’re_ not supposed to be back till Friday,” Nick shoots back with a fierceness Harry knows he doesn’t truly mean. The laughter lines around his eyes and mouth give him away. 

Harry shrugs. “Came back early. Sorry, _why_ are you wearing pajamas? Did I miss that part?”

“I was taking a nap!” Nick shrieks. “I don’t know if you know this but I have a _very early_ wake-up call, Styles. Well, maybe it doesn’t compare to the _popstar_ schedule, but--”

“Shut up,” Harry cuts him off, grinning. His stomach feels all fluttery. The tour is over and he’s here to stay for a while, at least. 

Well, technically in London. Not in Nick’s flat. Though they all know he’ll probably end up spending the most time there anyway. 

If he was brave enough, he’d stay until Nick kicked him out. 

Nick finally smiles back at him full-on, fucking _beaming_ at Harry on the doorstep with such visible fondness that Harry swears he can feel his heart kick up a notch. “Missed you,” Nick says, quieter than the rest, like the real emotion can’t be too obvious. 

Harry grins right back. “You going to let me in?”

Nick steps aside without a word and Harry enters. He can hear Puppy’s nails scratching along on the floor, rushing to greet him, and preemptively kneels down so he can pet her better. She jumps up on him, her front paws on his knees, and Harry coos and scratches behind her ears. 

When he looks up at Nick again there’s a softness to his expression that Harry recognizes. The kind when he sees Perrie subconsciously finger her engagement ring, or when he sees Louis call Eleanor. He’s even worn it own his own face at times, he’s sure… when yet another real estate agent shows him the perfect house but it has too many rooms to justify, when another crew member brings in the baby to meet everyone. 

It makes his chest ache for something he’s never let himself have. But that’s not the same as no longer wanting it. 

He smiles back up at Nick, the soft upturn of lips turning into a full-on grin, and then they’re just two idiots smiling at each other in the middle of an entryway for a long moment until Puppy barks at them for attention. 

“Sorry,” Harry says, clearing his throat a little as he stands up straight again. “I know you hate surprises.”

Nick shrugs, knocking his shoulder against Harry’s. “Eh,” he says, low enough that Harry has to strain to hear. “Don’t mind this one so much.”

Harry’s heart does a backflip in his chest and he grins even wider, grabbing Nick’s wrist and dragging him into the house. It may be late afternoon, but he could navigate this place with his eyes closed--not like his own house, which is still new enough that he can get a little lost in it, especially since he’s pretty much been on tour since it was finished. 

But here--here Harry knows like the back of his hand. 

He’s starting to think maybe that’s what home means.

//

“and that’s why when / we’re at the common again / i’ve been pouring my heart out toward your / optimistic grin…”

\\\

"I can't believe you forgot eggs," Harry says for the _millionth_ time, and oh god, Nick is going to kill him. 

"I know, _I know,_ okay Harold? Binding ingredient. You've said it a million times. I get it," Nick says as he pokes at the sad looking crumble he's attempting to assemble once again. He frowns. It looks truly pathetic. Nick can sympathize. 

Harry peers over his shoulder, squinting. "Add more butter," he says, and Nick obeys. 

"See, this is why I needed you here. You used to be a baker, I had to call in the big guns for assistance." 

Harry grins into the bowl of dry ingredients he is mixing. "You should have called me from the start," he says, voice teasing. "You don't even own _scales_ , Nick. What were you gonna do? What made you think you could even _try_ to attempt baking?" Harry's looking at Nick now with a face that is equal parts fond and _you are the biggest idiot I've ever met._ Hey, Nick will take it. 

"Honestly, I've got no fucking idea," Nick replies as he adds the butter, and then some more oil for good measure, shaking his head. "Can I claim temporary insanity? Is that a thing?" 

Harry grins, rolling his eyes. "Not just temporary, love."

 _"Hey,"_ Nick protests, shoving Harry in the shoulder for retaliation. It only succeeds in making him laugh. Bastard. 

By the time they get the crumble in the oven, Nick has realized something. "Harry Styles," Nick says, watching as Harry pops it into the oven, dish towel thrown over his shoulder, "You're good at this."

Harry snorts. "At what, saving the arses of tragically dysfunctional DJs?"

Nick sticks his tongue out, which proves to be a futile defense, as Harry does the same. "Noooo, at baking. Like, seriously. I see it now. You could’ve gone pro and everything."

Harry laughs, head thrown back as he approaches, then hoists himself up onto the counter to sit next to Nick, lightly kicking his feet against the cupboards. "I really did more ringing people up and sweeping the floors than anything else," he admits with a casual shrug. "Only really got to help with the baking when we were short staffed. Which turned out to be quite a bit, actually," he says thoughtfully, biting his lip.

Nick bumps their shoulders together slightly. “I can just picture it. Young Harry Styles making lattes, young Harold frosting cookies, young Henry Stars singing along to Radio 1 as he wipes down tables…”

Harry smiles so wide that his cheeks dimple, and something flutters wildly in Nick’s stomach. “Can you imagine what it’d be like?” he asks, slightly wondrous. “If none of this had ever happened and I was still working in a bakery in Chesire? Maybe after uni I would have opened up my own shop, sold people cupcakes and coffees and cakes and just… be, you know?” 

Something about it makes Nick sad, the way Harry says it. He breaks eye contact, looking down at their feet. Harry’s trainers contrast with Nick’s own socked feet, and his brain not-so-helpfully reminds him that he has an identical pair to the ones Harry is wearing in his own closet. “No,” Nick admits truthfully. It’s too different from the lives they have now for him to really contemplate it.

Furthermore, he doesn’t _want_ to. He doesn’t want to contemplate any type of alternate existence in which he doesn’t know Harry. “No, I can’t.” He is proud of the fact that his voice sounds mostly normal, that it only cracks a little. 

Harry’s gone still beside him and Nick has to fix this before it gets, like, weird between them. They always manage to somehow bump up against it, and Nick doesn’t want to think about why. “Besides,” he says, clearing his throat, tone teasing, “You wouldn’t _really_ make it as a baker anyway.”

“Oh yeah? Why?” Harry’s smirking already in anticipation, and it makes Nick laugh. 

“Because,” Nick replies, already giggling, “You let me down with the eggs.”

Harry’s smirk quirks upward, and he pushes Nick off the counter, still laughing. 

//

“said well i / i like the cut of your jib / i like the way your face looks when you’re / yapping on about him…”

\\\

Harry is not a stranger to Nick shagging people. It’s a fact of life--the sky is blue, February 1st is Harry’s birthday, and Nick has gotten off with a lot of models. 

It’s not like Harry can complain. He’s slept with his fair share of groupies, TV personalities, singers, what have you. He doesn’t begrudge Nick his sexual partners, and he wants Nick to be happy. 

Just, somehow, he always thought it’d be with him. 

There are probably a million and one quotes in magazines about how Nick wants a boyfriend, and a family, and a _life_. And Harry always thought, _that could be with me, someday._ The thought had always been far away, always on his terms. And he realizes that was selfish and unrealistic to think now, _god_ , of course he does. But Nick hadn’t ever had a serious boyfriend as long as Harry knew him, so he thought that maybe it’d work out okay. 

But now there’s Billy. And Billy is serious. Harry knows Billy is serious because of what Aimee said on the phone while Harry was (shamefacedly) trying to get information about him. 

“Nick really likes him, Harry,” she’d said. “Like, for real. He loves him, so don’t fuck this up, okay?”

“I… yeah, I won’t,” he’d said, digging his nails into his jeans and trying to keep his voice normal. “I’ll try not to.”

“I’m sorry,” Aimee said, and Harry had taken a little bit of comfort in the fact that she sounded sad too. 

He feels a bit sadder now though, sitting here listening to Nick talk about how well the two of them get on and how good everything is, and how he can’t wait for Billy and Harry to be properly introduced.

Because Harry had met him, once, back at the beginning. In passing, at some party where they’d all been pretty shitfaced. He forces himself to think only of the good things. Billy'd had... a nice nose. Decent teeth. Fine... shoes? Was generally clean? 

(Mostly Harry remembers not quite trusting his smile, and hating himself for it because he _knew_ why. Knew it was unfair and irrational and unkind, but couldn't stop himself from feeling it.) 

"I... Good! That's--that's great!" Harry says, forcing a smile onto his face. Nick lights up a little at that, and _oh,_ there is the sickening twist in Harry's gut. He knew it was coming.

"I dunno, maybe it's too early to tell, but. I really like him. I haven't--I've never been with someone and felt this way about them." Nick looks quietly proud and excited, which only makes Harry's stomach churn more. Why would he--did he think maybe he _couldn't_ do this, couldn't fall in love? 

(Or just not with Harry?)

"He's just... He makes me laugh and he cares about me and I care about him, you know, and..." Nick trails off, an irrepressible smile taking over his features, accompanied by a soft look in his eye that knocks the wind out of Harry. 

"He makes you happy," he murmurs, something bittersweet tugging up the corners of his lips. Nick meets his eyes and nods, still grinning like he doesn't quite know what to do with himself. 

Harry wishes he could hold Nick's face in his hands right now--he's practically _glowing_ and god, Harry wants to kiss him. Nick looks so, so content and in love and Harry is glad, of course, that Nick is happy, enough so that it almost overpowers his own feelings for Nick. 

Nick has been through a lot, though he may not always act like it, and he deserves this. He's the best person Harry knows and Harry's so, so glad that Nick is happy. He deserves to be _loved,_ unequivocally, the way Harry would love him if he could. If he was allowed. 

He clears his throat, shaking himself out of his thoughts. "It looks good on you," he says, voice a little rough, and Nick smiles at him, soft and grateful and intimate. 

"Thanks, Hazza."

Harry manages to make it into a cab back home (despite Nick’s protests to stay, to eat and drink and laugh, but Harry has to tear himself away no matter how good it sounds because he just can’t trust himself, in that situation) without really breaking. He tells the cabbie his address, and then the first thing he knows he’s dialling up Gemma with shaking fingers. 

“Hiya love! Y’alright?”

And then he is breaking down into messy, wracked sobs over the phone to his sister, in a cab in the middle of North London, because he’s in love with Nick Grimshaw and he never did anything about it. After so many chances, he never _did_ anything about it. 

“Harry… oh, Harry,” she says, and she doesn’t even know what it is but she shushes him and tells him it’s all going to be all right, and God, Harry’s going to have to tip the cab driver well to get him not to say anything to the press. 

He manages to pull himself together by the time they arrive at his house. “Sorry,” he mutters, wiping at his nose, but Gemma is having none of it. 

“Stop that right now,” she says, his fierce, _fierce_ sister. “Are you alright? Can I do something?”

“I’ll be okay,” he says, and the cab driver is tapping impatiently on his steering wheel and Harry takes an unsteady breath. 

“Call me if you need anything,” Gemma says, and Harry loves her for not asking what it was all about. Though, it’s entirely possible she already knows. His sister’s sort of magic, in that respect. 

“I will,” he promises, and hangs up after they say their goodbyes. 

He pays the taxi driver and enters his house--too big, too empty--and goes straight to bed.

//

“but on this shirt / i found your smell / and i just sat here for ages wondering what to do / with myself…”

\\\

Harry wakes up in the hotel room shivering, even under all the blankets and a fluffy duvet. Teeth chattering, he pulls the covers around him like a cape and pads over to his suitcase, feeling around randomly and grabbing out the first jumper he can get his hands on, pulling it over his head. 

It’s dark so he can’t see properly, and he’s half-asleep. It’s curious; he can’t quite tell what sweater this is. Admittedly, he didn’t really think that hard about packing his suitcase and just kind of threw in whatever random shit was in nearest reach, so it makes sense. Still, the arms are a little long on him, which is odd. 

Climbing back under the covers, Harry snuggles up on his side and pulls the long sleeves over his hands, pressing them to his mouth as he tries to persuade his teeth to stop chattering, and--

He freezes. 

Suddenly he knows exactly what jumper this is, and he's hit with a bout of homesickness that makes a lump form in his throat. 

God, it's the smell. It smells a little like that cologne that Nick wore _constantly_ for about a month because Aaron Paul had it on when they met and Nick couldn't get over it. The sweater smells a little bit like outside, like long walks with Puppy around Primrose Hill, like green grass and sunshine. It smells like black coffee, because Nick can't really function in the morning until he's had at least a half a cup, and sometimes the whole country knows it. It smells like all of those things and none of those things, because most of all it just smells like _Nick_ \--something warm and soothing and just... Like home. 

Harry remembers taking it. He's been sleeping over at Nick's place post-Billy, when Harry decided to say _fuck it_ because even though he couldn’t quite say it out loud he was going to try and say it with his actions, this time, this chance. They did not talk about him, or about the breakup, and a Harry felt a little bit guilty about that but mostly just relieved. Somehow, he could tell Nick sensed that. Nick was always better at reading people than Harry was. 

Anyway, it was after some sort of dinner or something, and after everyone else went home Harry just stayed. They ended up watching X-Factor on Sky and Nick kept teasing him about all the people who'd actually won-- _That Little Mix, eh, they're bound to be the biggest thing since the Spice Girls_ \--and then Harry would hit him in retaliation, making Nick laugh and squeal, "No punches, no punches!" as he tried to catch Harry's hands. 

Nick had been exhausted though, and so before long he'd rolled over and his breathing had started to deepen. Finally, Harry gave in and turned off the TV, and the light, and snuggled under the covers. He pressed himself close without actually touching Nick, careful to leave a couple inches between them in the wake of this new space they were navigating (this space between friendship and more that they’d always dealt in, but a little scarier now because there was a sort of unspoken understanding that this time that it just might actually lead somewhere). Still, leaning forward he could nuzzle his face between Nick's shoulder blades. 

Nick swatted at him halfheartedly, eyes still closed. "Ugh, it's too hot for that," he whined, pouting even with his eyes shut. 

"But Nick. _Niiiiiick._ I'm cold," Harry replied in the loudest whisper ever, nuzzling harder. 

Nick had made a grumpy noise and threw the covers back, getting up and stumbling over to the dresser while Harry tried to stifle his giggles. He threw the jumper right at Harry's face, who caught it just in time, and put it right on. 

It was-- _is_ \--gray with little specks of brown on, warm and comfortable and just... Harry fumbles for his phone, pulling it off the charger and calling. 

Nick answers on the first ring. 

"'Lo?" He mumbles, and _shit._

"Did I wake you? Sorry, shit, I suck at time zones, you know that--"

Nick laughs, low and tired, honest with sleep. "This is becoming a trend with you, Styles. Waking me up."

Harry tries not to blush as he remembers showing up at Nick's house out of the blue, waking him from a nap. Knowing they're thinking the same thing gives him a little bit of a thrill. "Sorry."

"Don't you know I need my beauty sleep? I host a national breakfast show, god." Harry laughs in spite of himself, something in his chest loosening. He closes his eyes. "What time is it there for you, anyway?"

Harry gives a very inelegant mumble. "No idea."

There's light in Nick's voice now; Harry can practically hear him waking up. "No idea? Where _are_ you?"

"Dunno. We flew in, went straight to the hotel, went straight to bed."

Nick laughs, kindly. "That wild popstar lifestyle," and Harry feels a smile creeping into his face. 

"Wait, what time is it for _you_?"

There's some fumbling on the other end as Nick reaches for his clock. "3 AM."

"Shit, sorry, I'll go--"

Nick cuts him off. "Hazza, it's fine. Couldn't go to sleep now, could I? What did you want to talk to me about?"

Harry breathes out, trying to relax. He feels so bad, forgetting about Nick's sleep schedule. "'Member that sweater you lost? Gray, with little brown specks on? I might... have it."

His words are met with a squawk. "My _favorite_ jumper?" 

Harry winces. "Yeah. Ended up in my bag somehow." 

There's a moment of silence and then Nick _bursts_ into laughter, loud and wheezing and Christ, the sound is so welcome to Harry's ears. He loves that sound, wants it constantly. 

"Styles, you clothing thief!" he says, once he's caught his breath. "I was just telling Aimee how my clothes are disappearing, and all this time you're the culprit? What if word gets out? Jesus, what _will_ the tabloids think?" 

Harry feels his face warm. The tabloids have said all kinds of shit about them--some true, some not--and he doubts that stealing Nick’s clothes would really be all that earth-shattering for their headlines. _I don’t care_ , Harry thinks wildly. He wishes it was the lack of sleep talking, but no, he’s been thinking this for a long while. He wrote a bloody song about it, for chrissakes, not that he’s told Nick that. _I don’t care what people say when we’re together._

And it scares the _shit_ out of him, a little bit. Because hadn’t that always been the reason they didn’t do this? Because Harry was in the world’s biggest boyband and Nick hosted the Radio 1 Breakfast Show and was nine years his senior? Wasn’t it all about perception, and branding, and controlling the narrative? 

Wasn’t it all ultimately bullshit?

“Dunno,” Harry says, and there’s something in his tone that makes Nick take a breath on the other end. Harry takes a deep breath himself, and says the next part that’s floating around in his head, forces the words out of his mouth. “Nothing that isn’t true.”

There’s silence on the other end, and Harry doesn’t know how to fill it. 

“Nick?”

There’s something that sounds like a sniffle. “Jesus, Haz.”

Something sinks in Harry’s gut. This is too much, right now. “I mean--”

“Don’t you _dare_ take that back,” Nick says, half a laugh, half something deeper. His voice is a little shaky, but there’s something a little bit light in it that gives Harry hope. Christ, how are they talking about this? How are they actually talking about this without actually _talking_ about it?

“Good, I’m not,” he says, letting his eyes slip closed as he breathes out. God, he wishes he had got the guts to do this anywhere but on tour, anytime but now. He is _so far away_ at this moment; it is so unfair. “I miss you so fucking much.”

“I--”

“I love you,” Harry says, before Nick can get out anything of substance. “I love you, I’m in love with you, I’m tired, and I want to be with you.”

“ _Christ._ How am I supposed to go on the radio after this?” Nick asks, and it sounds a little bit watery. 

“Don’t you dare call off, I want to listen.” He knows what Nick will sound like. It’ll be his favorite Nick, all happy and insuppressible, and no one will know exactly why except for Harry and it will be _perfect._

“You don’t even know what _time_ it is where you are, Harry Styles.”

“I don’t care.”

“Yeah, I’m getting that,” Nick replies, laughing, all messy and sniffly. 

Harry smiles into the darkness for a moment. “Um,” he tries, because Nick has really not expressed anything beyond surprise. “I mean, you don’t have to say it back, obviously, but I’m bloody brickin’ it here, it just might be--”

“Are you _mad_?” Nick squawks. “Are you actually bloody _mad_? Do you seriously think that after _years_ of being in love with you I would actually say no to this?”

Harry’s face warms up and his cheeks hurt from grinning. He fiddles with the cuff of Nick’s sweater. “Paps and all?”

“Yeah,” Nick says, and it is heartfelt and warm and _perfect._ “Not just paps. Just, and all.”

Harry calls the front desk after they hang up to find out the time (11 PM, Argentina). He goes back to sleep, setting his alarm to go off in three and a half hours, and then wakes up and loads up iPlayer to listen to the show. He sprawls out on his bed and listens to every second of it, fuck his sleeping schedule, and watches the sun rise from his hotel window, sunlight streaking in over the sheets. 

It looks the way Nick’s voice sounds.

//

“called you up / at one hundred and two / we just sat there for ages talking about that boy what / was getting onto you…”

\\\

“I’m nervous,” Nick says, bouncing up and down a little bit in place. He’s sort of regretting their sleepless night now, knowing they have so many more coming. 

Just a little bit though. 

They’d gotten the call that Toni was going into labor late in the evening, and that in the morning they would have a baby, and as soon as Harry had hung up they basically collided into each other at full force. They had fucked on the hardwood floor, messy and needy and desperate and bursting with something brand new, something they had no name for. 

Nick had dragged them to the bed, afterwards, and they had stayed up most of the night talking and planning and kissing and whispering, on the edge of their brand new life. 

Actually, scratch that, he wouldn’t trade it for anything. 

“You think I’m _not_?” Harry laughs, throwing a last couple items into a bag. “We’re about to be _parents,_ Nick. In less than an hour. I mean, technically we’re already--”

“Don’t,” Nick cuts him off, covering his ears and closing his eyes. It’s childlike, but he can’t bring himself to care. Quite fitting, really. Anyway, he’s been waiting too long for this, he can’t deal with it right at this very moment. He just. He needs a minute. 

So he feels rather than sees Harry pull him in by his belt loops, wrapping his arms around Nick’s body and rubbing his back gently, head pillowed on his shoulder. Christ, Nick is actually _shaking_ with nerves. His teeth are literally chattering. It’s like when he was a child and he would get _so excited_ for something that his body would start freaking out on him. 

“Babe, you’re shivering,” Harry mumbles into Nick’s shirt, and Nick can’t do more than nod. “C’mere.”

Harry pulls them over to the closet as Nick opens his eyes and leans down to rummage through a pile of discarded clothes at the bottom. “Here,” he says, throwing a jumper at Nick. 

And Nick… Nick holds it in his hands and just sort of laughs for a moment, his eyes filling with tears. _Shit,_ he’s crying already. How is he going to handle a nurse handing him an actual _child_ and saying _Here you go, this one’s yours!_ if he’s crying over a goddamn _sweater_ right now. He pulls it over his head quickly, wiping at his eyes. 

"Ohhh, love," Harry says when he stands back up, wearing a concerned frown. "What's the matter?"

Nick shakes his head, unable to speak, and covers his mouth with his hands, which are fully covered by the dangling arms of the sweater. Harry's brow furrows for a second as he moves in, cradles Nick's face with his hands, and then--

Comprehension dawns on Harry’s face. He presses his forehead to Nick's, leaning in and breathing deep. Then he laughs. "Still smells like you." 

"No bloody way," Nick says, uncovering his mouth to speak, regaining a little control of his voice. "I was just gonna say it smells like you."

Harry laughs, pulling away a bit to wrap his arms around Nick's waist. His smile is so wide Nick worries his face will crack in half. "Guess it doesn't really matter now. It's _ours,_ " Harry says, ducking in to drop a kiss over Nick's pulse point. 

"It's ruined," Nick whines, just to make Harry laugh and bare his teeth against Nick's throat. "The neck's all stretched out and the sleeves have gone all floppy--"

"Not _ruined_ ," Harry disagrees. "Just well-loved," he decides before taking Nick's earlobe between his teeth, and Nick makes an embarrassing noise. 

The memory makes Nick shudder just as much as Harry's mouth, remembering the phone call. The one that brought them _here_. Because of this sweater. 

Their lives are so weird. 

He threads his fingers through Harry's hair and holds him tight. 

In the end, it turns out to be quite good that Nick spent so much time crying before they left for hospital, since once they get there Harry pretty much seems to have that base covered. Nick would tease him (as usual), but after this morning that would be cruel. 

"He's so tiny," Harry says, sniffling as he holds their son for the first time. "So _small_. Oh god, what if we break him?"

Nick laughs, glad to be the voice of reason this time. "That's impossible, Haz. You baby proofed every room in the house." He hooks his chin over Harry's shoulder and looks at their son's tiny, wrinkly face, red from crying and screaming not ten minutes ago but now bravely blinking up at them, totally unintimidated. Oh _god_ , Nick's lost all authority as a parent in less than 24 hours already. Can he lose it if he never had it? 

Harry wipes a hand over his nose, smile on his lips all wobbly. “Hi, Gray. Hi.” Nick presses his nose to the back of Harry’s neck and twines his arms around Harry’s waist. Harry gently takes hold of Gray's tiny index finger with his hand and Nick's heart clenches. 

"Oh god, Harry Styles. You're going to be _that parent_ , aren't you? He's already got you wrapped around his little finger." 

Harry's grin widens, sparing Nick a look before turning back to their son. "Please, I know how you spoil your godchildren; you won't be any better."

Nick laughs. "Fair point."

They stay like that for a while: Harry holding Gray, Nick holding Harry. Nick sort of can't stop looking at Gray because God, they have a _son_. After all this time, he actually has a child of his very own. And he already loves him so much his heart feels like it's bursting. 

They're a family. He, Harry, and Gray are a _family_. Something Nick thought he would maybe never get, with the boy he always wanted but thought he would _definitely_ never have. It's been so long, but they got here. 

"You take him," Harry whispers finally, and Nick's heart skips erratically in his chest, but he swallows bravely and nods, holding his arms out. Gray wiggles a little but then Nick's holding him, cradling his head, running his hand over his soft, fine baby hair. Gray turns, nuzzling against Nick's sweater, his small fingers clutching and pawing at it in a way that makes Nick a little bit breathless at how it's all come full circle. 

This sweater--this _stupid_ sweater--has seen Nick's cologne and lonely hotel rooms and suitcases and boxes and the bottom of a messy closet. It has smelled of Versace and wine and Sunday roast and airplanes and recording studios and now, now it will smell of bubble baths and baby powder and mushed carrots and exhaustion and so, so much more. It's only just beginning, really. 

When Nick looks at him, Harry's eyes are shining as he gazes at the two of them, covering his mouth. "I love you," he says, all earnest and tearful. "Both of you. _So._ Much."

Nick finds he can't really speak, just reaches out with a hand that Harry takes and pulling him close, knitting them all together.


End file.
